Dueling With Demons
by apieskapie
Summary: On the Isle of Asvalgar, lies the demon that sits upon a throne of ash. The lands are plagued with monsters, mankind struggles to slink on in the world amidst the nightfall. Its not until Ezrok, a young boy, is taken captive and turned a slave gladiator, that some begin to see the sparks of hope that fly with the clash of his iron blade. Will he survive the arena of Untamed Souls?


**_Let it be known, dear reader, that this is indeed my first work ever of fanfic, so please share with me your thoughts on how I did, and how I might better improve this story. Enjoy! - apieskapie_**

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Prologue:  
It was late afternoon when a thin, mountain rain began to trickle upon the plains. Ezrok stalked about the long grass as he ridded the sheep of their warm winter coats. The shears producing a crisp sound as he cut. This had been his final chore of the day before he was off to wander on home for supper, and the rain only dampened his mood.

Coming upon the final three sheep, Ezrok cut in quick succession, snatching the wool blocks as they fell. He then hurriedly nestled shears in the pouch at his side. Stuffing the wool blocks in as well. Sighing to himself he turned upon the heels of his boots, and trudged out of the sheep pasture, on towards the lone tree that sheltered his horse.

As he walked the rain leapt in ferocity and began to pound at his back, thunder grumbled its greeting in the distance. His short, sun blonde hair stuck to his head, and his dull leather tunic did little to keep out the chill of rain. Mumbling curses to the nether and back, Ezrok broke into a run, dashing across the endless plains, his boots casting molds in the ground as dirt drowned to thick, silky mud.

He came to the small oak tree, and leapt upon his horse, Blin, who rumpled her hazel mane in response to his touch. "Home" he whispered in her ear. With that Blin's muscles rippled as she bound to a gallop, hooves pummeling the earth, sending mud affray in her wake.

Ezrok rode like this for a time watching the plains and their hills roll by like the waves of the ocean, the rain howling down all the while from the clouds. He glanced forward then, at the narrow bush path that wound through the grass, Blin all the while maintaining her gallop. While nearing the top of a hill the sight of a dull object at the crook of his vision, caught his eye. And he turned towards it in his saddle.

"Ssffpt!"

An arrow had seemingly dance down from the Aether, colliding heavily with Ezrok's left shoulder, slicing through the leather of his tunic with ease. The force effectively sent him reeling, arms churning to catching him as he fell upon the ground, mud splattering around him. A cascade of pain crumpled his body, the screams unable to tear from his lips.

He had once before cut himself with his father's iron blade as he attempted an intricate swirl he had witness performed plenty times before. The cut had been long and narrow, and stung like the nether itself.

This.

This however.

It set his whole body writhing, his hands clawed at the arrow, nails sinking into oak shaft. He rolled and withered in the mud, blood cascaded from his shoulder, spilling around him. Outlined in the inky swirls of his vision formulated the shapes of several figures. His mind wasn't able to produce a clear picture of what stood around him. He didn't need sight to realize that they were indeed monsters that closed in on him. His ears cringed at the creeks and crackles as the bones of skeletons shifted, like the groans of an unoiled door. The foul stench of rotting flesh, lingered before his nose. Moans of the dead and dying wailed around him.

His head pounded, a whirlwind of flashing stars before his eyes. Ezrok's right hand tore at the ground, clawing desperately in search of his pouch. He found it then. Lying but a block away. Groaning he rolled over. His right hand, wet with blood, slipped inside, shambling about, desperate for something, anything to ward off his impending doom. His hand then ran over the rough handle of his oak sword. He grasped it tightly, as he pulled it from the folds of his bag. He had crafted it himself, more so a sparring weapon than anything else, but now he held out the trembling blade, tempting anything to near him. Slashing out, his blade only met air. The pain surged stronger, washing over him, the shadows swelling in size, the figures fraying into a black mist. A hoarse gasp escaped his mouth before his mind sank into a damp darkness.


End file.
